


my spirit gold

by nightstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8.23 Coda, M/M, Spoilers, fallen!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:12:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightstiel/pseuds/nightstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angels fall and it’s terrifying. <br/>A coda to season 8 finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my spirit gold

The angels fall and it’s terrifying.

It’s beautiful to the oblivious ones, admiring a meteor shower so unusual for this time of the year. But it’s terrifying because Castiel knows the pain, the terror and the anguish, the sweltering heat and fire consuming every feather.

Just because he didn’t hit the ground doesn’t mean the loss doesn’t ring just as hollow; the weight from his back has been lifted and he should tread lightly but he’s never felt so tired, walking back towards the abandoned church.

Sam seems to be okay, mostly. He’s coughing up a little but it’s receding, his breath more even.

Crowley is gone; either taken by Abaddon or saved by his mooks and only chains are rattling as the whole structure shivers.

The three of them stand, frozen as the angels fall and fall and can’t seem to stop. Dean has never realised how the host of heaven was, not until it was crumbling and chipping away. He glances over and Castiel’s cheeks are wet and he balls his hands into fists, angry, furious.

“I’m cold”, Cas says and Dean looks to him and _knows_ and it breaks his heart so much more than all these dicks falling down from the sky.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s get back in the car.” He helps Sam inside, to sprawl on the backseat (“geez, Dean, I’m good”) and slams the door shut before turning to Cas. The burning lights flicker on Impala and the night has never been so bright and yet so full of terrors.

He asks because he has to and Castiel tells him about the spell, about Metatron’s revenge, simmering over the course of millennia. _You couldn’t have known. It’s not your fault. Please stay._ But none of that seems appropriate while the angels are still falling and Cas just stands, at first glance as immovable as before but shimmering, trembling at the edges like no angel ever should.

Instead Dean just reaches out, grabs the worn coat by its lapels and brings them close; Castiel’s breath is short and ragged and he cups his face to steady him and it’s true that angels run cold, like Lucifer did because Castiel is warm and human and all he never wanted to be.

“Cas. Cas look at me.” Dean sets his jaw, his rage eating him from within because this is all _Dean_ has ever wanted—because Cas will stay, this time, for he has nowhere to go and Dean can make Earth his home.

“We’ll get it back, you understand? I promise.” _Because it doesn’t matter if it’s not a choice_ and Dean wants to give Castiel his choice back so he can make the right one.

Cas just nods and Dean brings their foreheads together, closes his eyes, but the lit up sky is burnt on his retinas. He wonders, when Castiel sleeps tonight, if it will be his first nightmare. They stand like that, close, inches between their chests and hearbeats as Cas wraps his fingers around Dean’s hands, holding on to them like they’re his lifeline. It’s not a comfort; it’s close enough for now.

“At least you get to ride shotgun this time, right?”

“We’ll help you Cas, I’ll help you. I’ll get you through all the ugly human stuff before we get your angel mojo back.”

Castiel just laughs, mirthless; there’s gratitude somewhere and Dean knows it but it rings hollow of another memory of a dark world and another fallen angel who had changed too much and suddenly panic seizes him; _what if we always end up there._ He just grips Castiel tighter, mulls over words in his mouth, his lips moving mute as he struggles for words but there isn’t anything to make this right; all the kings horses and all the king’s men can’t put an angel back together again and he laughs bitterly as well. They will fail, probably, but Dean can die trying.

If anything, Castiel feels more magnetic now, as if a barrier was dropped and he entered his perception fully and Dean wonders if a kiss might make it better, if only a little and they are sharing breaths anyway. He settles for an in-between; runs a hand through Castiel’s hair and places his lips on his forehead, only barely and he’s not sure he hadn’t chickened out milimetres before; but Castiel’s hands clamp down on his as he swallows down the last gasp.

“Thank you, Dean. I appreciate this,” voice small, like a child’s. He straightens up, looks at Dean and tries to smile. His grace is gone and so is his home but Dean is still here; and if the green eyes burning with such ferocity and determination are any indication (and it is; always is. It’s true what they say about eyes and souls and Cas thinks, Dean’s soul is one of the things he misses the most about being an angel. There’s a heartbeat inches from his own, suddenly loud in his ears and his vessel doesn’t feel as comfortable; but maybe they can make it up as they go.)

“Let’s go home, Cas.”

And they get into the Impala and they drive, the rain of heaven’s grief dying out above them.

\--

“You’re gonna have to ditch those clothes, you know.”

“Why?” Cas furrows his brow, line of his mouth thinning in defense.

“Because you’ll stink, man. And you’re not getting into any bed with shoes on,” and Castiel’s face falls. Fuck, Dean knows how much this coat means more than anyone, he carried it with him for nearly a year because if he held onto it, Cas couldn’t have been gone. “You can still wear it outside.”

Dean did not expect Cas to strip right there; but he didn’t mind. There was nothing sensual about it, a fallen angel peeling his layers one by one, clothes that have been defining him for all his years of a celestial wave of intent contained in a fragile, breakable body.

“Okay, stop there, Cas,” Dean waves his hand as Castiel thumbs the hem of his boxer shorts; all neat and light blue and boring. Jimmy was a good, religious boy. “That’s enough. You can leave the socks on, it can get pretty chilly in the night.”

Castiel’s gaze is all but withering; most of all, there’s silence. No more electric buzz but this is what you get once your 10 senses dwindle to a mere 5, not very acute, either. But there’s fondness in his eyes as he looks at Dean and sits tentatively at the edge of the bed, mattress dipping beneath him.

“It’s going to remember your butt now,” Dean chuckles, desperate to lift  the mood. The room feels more claustrophobic than ever; Castiel is still greater than life, even as a fallen angel and this is everything Dean has wanted and feared ever since that one night in Maine they never spoke about again. There was no time to prepare another bedroom for Cas, Dean said. He didn’t want to leave Cas alone.

He didn’t want to be alone either.

Dean searches through the bag, sniffing every second t-shirt; he’s satisfied with a grey AC/DC one and tosses it to Cas. “You can take some of mine before we go shopping for you. Don’t ruin it, it’s my favourite.”

“I will keep it safe, Dean.”

Dean sits next to Cas, then; the former angel is really warm and it’s been ages since Dean has been this close with another human being and hair on his skin stands up, blood humming in his ears. His hands are holding Castiel’s face again, soft, pliant, with all the comfort they can give.

It’s not  a lot.

“I mean it, Cas. We’ll shut the fucking demons, we’ll gank Metatron and we’ll get your mojo back.”

“I know you do, Dean. But I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Well, I’m not gonna leave you like this. You don’t want this.”

“Not like this,” Cas sets his jaw because it’s true; but he’s fallen, he’s human, grace gone and wasted to hurl his brothers and sisters into darkness and Dean is still here. Not going anywhere.

He didn’t remember kisses being so overwhelming; the texture of Dean’s lips, slightly chapped and salty brushing against his own, and the stubble scraping against his face; breaths were never this warm and everything just feels _more._

It’s slow and it’s painful and Castiel is afraid; it feels like his soul is being sucked out of him. The heat overwhelms him and he falls, always falls, down onto the bed. They’ve done this before and Castiel’s hands find their way easy into Dean’s hair, tugging and pulling as Dean works his way down his jaw, so gentle it makes Cas want to cry. It’s too much and too raw and he wants more, helps Dean desperately out of his shirt and wriggling his way out of his boxers.

“Whoa whoa, slow down, Cas. Easy,” Dean cooes but his cock is straining against his underwear and Dean moans when Castiel breaks it free, holding back a gasp where they touch; he holds them together, both needy and leaking and shuddering and he can’t tell who is more overwhelmed.

It happens fast, in the dark; a reminiscent of Maine, but instead of the smell of old leather seats there are fresh sheets, drenched in sweat and come; and everything feels new.

Maybe they can’t get Castiel’s grace back, but it’s a lie that can keep them going. Maybe Cas will like being human; he took to coffee, and he might take to Dean’s burgers. Maybe he’ll realise what _I need you_ really means and it will be enough.

 

 

 


End file.
